


The Irishman

by Persephone



Series: The Men of Myth Convention [3]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies), Men of Myth Convention, Troy (2004)
Genre: Alley Sex, Bar Room Brawl, Bruises, Conventions, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each year, a Men of Myth Convention takes place in modern day Orlando, Florida, in which characters from legend and myth appear at a five-day convention to do panels and get into all kinds of fucked up things like get drunk in bars.</p><p>In this fic, Hector, Prince of Troy, encounters a brash young Irishman of infamy.</p><p>(What started the fight between the Gondorian and Rohirrim soldiers is told in Part 2 of the series, <i>Revenge of the Rohirrim.</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Irishman

**Author's Note:**

> The Men of Myth Convention is a crossover universe invented by [Stewardess](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stewardess/).

Hector saw the blow coming and groaned silently into his goblet.

The beautiful dark haired soldier swung his elbow in a perfect arc and stopped the snickering torrent coming from the rugged blond rider closest to him.

No swords or axes swung, since the management had strictly enforced their “No Weapons Allowed” policy at the door.

Still, there was plenty of ire to make up for weapons as with a resounding roar the Rohirrim crashed into the Guards of Minas Tirith. Helmets and fists flew, patrons screeched and scattered like mice, and Hector gripped the side of the bar and launched himself into the middle of the brawl.

He took a rain of blows to his torso and back, but standing head and shoulders above most of them, he bent his knees and braced his forearms against pressing bodies. With a massive bellow, he shoved with all his might.

The mob around him forcefully parted with a loud groan, men stumbling backwards and dropping one on top of the other, struggling to avoid getting crushed by more falling men.

“No more!” Hector roared, and silence descended.

He straightened and looked down at the men piled and sprawled around his legs.

“Up!” he chastised, and watched as they helped each other up, grumbling fitfully. “I know both your lords,” he barked. “And they would be sorely dismayed by this pitiful display. Whatever your quarrel, you do them no honor in failing to settle it like civilized men.”

The soldiers looked sheepishly at the floor.

“Do not make me get up from my seat again.”

Hector scowled at them to make sure they got his point, then slowly made his way out of their circle and back to his seat at the bar.

“Very well done, Prince,” Achilles praised mildly in the seat next to his, bringing his goblet of wine to his lips.

Before Hector could respond, someone gripped his shoulder and came around to his other side.

“Aye,” the dark haired man breathed in awe. “Nicely done, indeed. And who might you be?”

Hector heard Achilles cackling softly as he got up and left. The man quickly sat in the vacated seat.

“You don’t know this guy, Murph?!” the bartender yelled in mock horror. “Aaay! What a fucking tragedy!”

“Well it’s my first time at this zoo, ain’t it?”

“Murphy, meet Prince Hector. Greatest warrior that ever lived.” The bartender discreetly looked down the bar to make sure Achilles had not heard that. “Hector this is Murphy. _Saint._ ”

The bartender chortled, dropped a pitcher of ale in front of the Murphy man, and left.

Hector composed his features politely and said, “How do you do.”

“I do fine,” Murphy breathed absently, blatantly raking his eyes over Hector’s face.

His scrutiny was somewhat rude, but Hector had ceased to be surprised by the kind of people he met at this convention. So he held his tongue and turned back to his wine, noticing out of the corner of his eyes that the soldiers in the fight were filing out of the bar. Good. He would have to mention this ridiculous incident to Aragorn and Éomer.

He should leave himself. He had come looking for Paris and had instead got drawn into sharing wine with Achilles, whom he hadn’t seen in ages. These Men of Myth conventions were _taxing._

Hector suddenly realized Murphy was still staring.

“You’ve got hair like a girl’s,” Murphy mused in an accent of speech that was lovely and musical, and contrary to his uncouth manners.

As his words sank in Hector didn’t think Murphy was talking to him. He turned and saw Murphy staring, half curious, half smirking.

“I do not think so,” Hector murmured in reply, frowning.

Murphy’s lips curled, then his eyes narrowed into glinting slits. “You look funny,” he said suspiciously, as if he couldn’t place exactly why he thought that. “Your mouth and nose are strange. And your eyes are so… long. You got eyeliner on?!”

Hector turned and faced him fully. “Look around you,” he said calmly. “There are _Elves,_ as well as all manner of men, including Numenoreans. Do I, as a Trojan, really stand out as odder looking than anyone else?”

“I’m not talkin’ to anyone else, am I?” Murphy jeered softly. “I’m talkin’ to you.” He took a gulp of his beer. “Can I touch ya hair?” he asked suddenly, softly.

Hector had been about to admonish him for his rudeness, but the question had been asked with such unexpected sweetness, and the question itself so unusual that Hector suddenly found himself harboring the desire to pull Murphy into his lap.

He frowned in bewilderment, then sighed into his goblet, not about to try and understand someone he just met. “Yes, you may.”

Murphy leaned forward and pulled gently on a loose lock over his forehead. He stretched it down to Hector’s cheek and then released it and watched it curl back up. He made a childish sound of delight.

Hector felt his breath stutter involuntarily and cleared his throat to cover it.

“You’re a prince?” Murphy asked, sitting back in his seat.

“Yes.”

“What languages do you speak?”

“Trojan, of course.”

“That’s it?” Murphy snorted loudly. It scorched away all sweetness.

Hector growled in annoyance and looked longingly at the door to the bar. Another half a minute, and it would not be rude of him to take his leave. He counted the seconds.

“Ya know what?” Murphy rested his upper body on the bar, propping his head in his hand. He wagged his finger at Hector. The long sleeve of his T-shirt seemed too long for him, covering half his hand, and Hector wondered whether he wasn’t wearing his own clothing.

He had no idea why that made his crotch grow warm.

Murphy leaned in. “I think I’ve seen yer brother around. He _is_ a fucking girl,” he sneered, then was licking his lips for some reason. “I’ve seen him checking my brother Connor out. If he touches Connor, I’ll have to kill him.”

“I wish you luck in that.”

“Sure ya do.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “High and mighty Trojan prince that ya are…”

His words faded as he froze and gaped at Hector. “Holy fucken shit!” he shouted in sudden realization.

Hector cringed, wondering what might be coming next.

“You’re the fucken horse tamer!”

Hector groaned and rubbed his hand over his forehead. It was time to leave. If he heard that phrase one more time…

Murphy had gone quiet. When Hector looked over at him Murphy was eyeing him, gulping down mouthfuls of beer.

“Ya good with rope?” Murphy asked softly, licking the beer off his lips.

“What for?”

Murphy’s eyes slid around the room. Then he leaned forward until they were a hair’s breadth apart. “Ya ever tried tamin’ an Irishman?”

Hector stared at him. This man’s brazenness reminded him too much of Paris. He stood up, frustrated that he was aroused. He willed his cock to resist getting any harder and stepped around his seat.

“I must take my leave of you,” he sighed, bowing slightly. “It was nice to meet you. I hope you find your brother Kohnor.”

He strode swiftly for the door. There was a small enclave holding their weapons and armor, and he handed in his pink stub to get his short sword back, which was the only weapon he’d brought with him out of the hotel room.

The bar was diagonally across the street from their hotel, and behind that the Convention Center sprawled, lit up and garish in the night. It was past one o’clock in the morning, but the streets were still full of people.

Hector walked along the side of the building to get to the street crossing, but as he passed a narrow alley between the bar and the next building, an arm shot out and grabbed him. He was yanked hard, and found himself with his back up against the wall.

He assumed it was Paris.

It was Murphy.

“Show me yer fucken rope,” Murphy whispered up at him, licking his lips and sliding his hands under Hector’s robe.

Hector let out a growl and pushed his hips forward. This man was mad, and it was making him hard.

“I don’t have _rope,_ ” he whispered, reaching for his sword sheath. “I have leather.”

“Uh!” Murphy cried suddenly, looking down as his wrists were suddenly clasped together and trussed in swift moves. “What the fuck!”

After so much use, Hector could make the long strap of leather do just about anything he wanted. It was soft and pliant with many applications of oil, thick and broad, and strong. It needed to be.

He unraveled the rest of its length from around his sheath, dropping his sword to the ground. He wrapped the strap around Murphy’s waist and knotted it against his stomach so that his bound hands lodged there.

He regretted that he only had one length of it, but it would have to do.

Murphy was eagerly pushing forward into him, lifting his knee to push up Hector’s robe. He was wriggling his fingers to try and stretch them around Hector’s cock and lift it into his hands.

“Jesus,” Murphy whimpered, abandoning the effort of trying to grab Hector’s cock and instead stroking his fingers along its shaft. “Fuck!” he cried. “I want it! Get this fucken thing off me!”

“Hmm,” Hector hummed slyly, looking down into Murphy’s upturned, flushed face. He was so strangely beautiful, letting his fervor burn openly in his face. “Being bound never once hindered Paris.”

Murphy froze as his mouth fell open. “Yer own brother!” he cried in an oddly plaintive way. “Ya dirty man!”

“I know,” Hector whispered down at him, feeling his cock swell. Even if he wanted to, there was no turning back now.

Murphy swore and dropped to his knees. He reached up with his bound hands and closed them over Hector’s balls, cupping them as he pressed his lips over his cock and took half of it down. Hector called on the gods and gripped his hair, resisting the urge to thrust all the way down his throat. Murphy’s mouth wet him and sucked, then slid slow and firm all the way to the base. His tongue lapped under his length.

Hector let out a shuddering groan and slid his cock out slowly before pushing it back in, staring down in disbelief as Murphy took all of him.

Murphy coated him with his saliva then stood up and turned around, bracing his chest against the wall.

Hector placed both hands on either side of him and pressed against him, pressing his mouth to Murphy’s ear. “Push your legs together,” he breathed, and Murphy did, panting.

Murphy’s arms were moving frantically, and Hector realized he was trying to unbuckle his jeans. Hector reached around and did it for him, pulling them down just past his ass. It was all the room Hector needed.

He parted his robe and pressed his wet cock head against the back of Murphy’s thighs.

Murphy howled into the stone wall. “It won’t fit!”

“Shh,” Hector breathed against his ear. “Trust me.”

He reached around Murphy, sheathing Murphy’s warm, stiff cock in one hand and circling the other around the leather binding his wrists, caressing it. Murphy mewled and pushed back.

Hector squeezed and stroked his cock gently, feeling the sweat on his stomach. He tested with his cock, and felt sweat between Murphy’s thighs as well. He growled softly into Murphy’s ear, liking the way Murphy was sweating for him.

Hector bent his knees slightly and pushed his cock straight between Murphy’s thighs. Murphy immediately squeezed his legs together and slid backwards on his cock.

Hector shuddered, then thrust, sliding his hand down Murphy’s cock as he did so. Murphy cried out and stretched his fingers until the tips brushed the head of Hector’s cock as it protruded between his legs.

“Aw, fuck this,” Murphy swore hotly on a shuddering sigh. “Put it in me.”

Hector’s fist tightened on his cock. “I do not think—”

Murphy wailed in annoyance and pushed back. “Just fucken do it, horse tamer!”

Still stroking Murphy’s cock, Hector pulled backwards, feeling with the tip of his cock until he felt a dip, and Murphy rocked, letting him know he was in the right spot. Hector knew there was no way he could fit without some form of lubrication, and lots of it, no matter how bad Murphy wanted it. But Murphy’s thighs and entrance were slick with sweat and saliva, and that was enough for Hector to push until the head of his cock sank nearly all the way into Murphy.

Murphy loved it enough to arch against him, squeeze his thighs tighter and rock wildly. Hector grabbed the rest of his own cock, squeezing and holding it still as it was put to use. He looked down, feeling his face heat up at the sight of his cock disappearing into Murphy’s pale backside like a ram rod.

He groaned and pressed his mouth to Murphy’s ear again. “I need to tame more Irishmen, if they are all like you.”

“You’re not doing shit!” Murphy cried. “Harder!”

Murphy bucked, and Hector choked on his breathing as his whole cock head suddenly pushed into Murphy. Murphy howled and pushed back against him like a wild stallion, his fingers scrambling to grip Hector’s hands as they stroked him.

Hector squeezed his own cock, shivering, refusing to thrust, but not needing to as Murphy’s hips rotated hard and his cock pulsed and spurted come against the wall. His muscles clenched and Hector convulsed and groaned in a hard climax.

Eventually he pulled out very slowly, but came out easily, his tip covered in his own seed. He stepped back and used the inside of his robe to wipe himself and Murphy, then placed his hand on the back of Murphy’s head, stroking gently. He realized Murphy’s face had been pressed to the wall and was probably bruised.

“Are you all right?”

“Fuuuck,” Murphy breathed.

Hector carefully untied the strap around his waist and wrists, pulled his jeans back up, and worked the mechanisms to zip and button it.

“I am going to wait for you out on the street. Do you understand?”

Murphy mewled and nodded.

Hector picked up his sword, wrapping the strap of leather around it as he walked from the alley onto the street. After about half a minute Murphy stumbled out of the alley, and right at that moment a blond man burst out of the bar’s doors.

“Jaysus, Murph!” the man shouted, hurrying to him. He whipped a look into the alley, took one look at the bruises on Murphy’s face and gripped his shoulders. “Are ya all right, man! How many of them were there? Did you see their faces?!”

Hector had no idea who the man was, but right behind him Paris had stepped out of the bar, so Hector assumed this was Murphy’s brother Kohnor. Paris had stopped, taking in the scene. He, unlike Murphy’s brother, knew immediately what had taken place.

Hector hoped Paris would turn around and go in the opposite direction from Murphy, but he knew better than to trust to hope.

He stepped into Paris’s way just as Paris reached where they stood.

“I merely wish to have a word with him, Hector,” Paris said midly, and without preamble.

“Xandros, go to the hotel, and I shall be right behind you.”

Paris set his jaw and slanted his eyes up at Hector. Hector made himself stand his ground.

“Go,” he snarled, and Paris turned on his heel and walked away. Hector looked over his shoulder to make sure Murphy was all right.

Kohnor was bringing him past, his arm tight around Murphy’s shoulders. He kissed his cheek once, then again, stroking where he had kissed him. He kissed him again.

“Let’s get ya lying down, brother,” Kohnor said hoarsely. “I’ll see to yer bruises and then we’ll get the fuckers who did this.”

Murphy was nodding absently. Aye,” Murphy sighed in a blissful daze. “But first I’m gonna need a cigarette. And light it for me, will ya, Connor? I think I sprained my wrist trying to lift some fucken heavy shit.”

Hector turned around and went after Paris.

~*~

 _End_


End file.
